


Hello, Stranger

by bleep0bleep



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Cuddling & Snuggling, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Castiel/Dean Winchester, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5334113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleep0bleep/pseuds/bleep0bleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is trying to chase away his feelings for Derek with alcohol when he meets an angel in a bar. Weirder things have happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, Stranger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [literaryoblivion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryoblivion/gifts).



> For my dear dear [literaryoblivion,](literaryoblivion.tumblr.com) who's had a rough time of it lately. I tried to combine your two favorite things, I hope you enjoy this bit of fluff and it cheers you up!
> 
> Thank you to the lovely  
> [mikkimouse](http://mad-madam-m.tumblr.com), [sourwolfandsarcasm](http://sourwolfandsarcasm.tumblr.com), [metakate](http://metakate.tumblr.com), [deleted-scenes](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com), and [spellwovennight](http://spellwovennight.tumblr.com).
> 
> Title is a play on Supernatural S8E17.

“His eyes, man, I don’t even know. They’re like… green, but not green, like blue sometimes? But gray, gray’s there too, and these gold flecks and they’re just… they sparkle when he smiles, and when he smiles…” Stiles sighs, staring into his empty glass. “It’s like the universe is staring back at me and I just… I don’t know what to do.”

The bar is practically empty; some place in the middle of nowhere with dismal flickering neon signs advertising beer and pool. There’s a few stragglers by the pool table but the place is quiet aside from the country twang of the singer crooning over the speakers, singing about loneliness and heartbreak and pretty much everything Stiles is feeling right now.

The man sitting at the bar next to him nods in solidarity. “I know what you mean. The universe is quite awe inspiring, but to see the whole of it in one person— I understand.”

Stiles raises his glass to the stranger, who’s wearing a tan trenchcoat despite the humid heat of the night. He seems like a good sort, been listening to Stiles drunkenly ramble for hours now.

“I hear you,” Stiles says, reaching out to clink their glasses together. “What was your name again?”

“Castiel. I’m … not from around here.”

Stiles nods. He feels a weird connection to this guy, who looks more like an accountant than the rough-and-tumble crowd this place seems to cater to. Castiel’s also rockin’ an impressive line of empty shotglasses himself, but he’s holding himself upright.

Stiles on the other hand, is here because he and Derek got into a shouting match again, over the most ridiculous thing; Stiles had the right ingredients to banish the dryad, and rushed forward and managed to complete the spell while the dryad was spitting toxic green goo at him. He got a bit singed, and his plaid shirt’s seen better days, but no sooner than the spell was complete, sparks flying and dryad banished back to their homerealm, Derek had started in on Stiles’ impulsive, irresponsible behavior and it had gone downhill from there.

It’s his fault in the first place; volunteer for a mission because of course, there’s no reason to take Scott and Kira away from their kids or pull Lydia out of her extensive research at MIT. Everyone in the pack is scattered to the wind, people pursuing their own careers, settling down across the country. The Nemeton has quieted and there’s been a few strange things here and there, but it’s easy enough to figure out that whoever is closest to the issue can go deal with it.

And maybe because Stiles is the only single one left, untied to a particular career or a significant other, so that when Derek is itching to do something, he’s always the one to call. When Derek found out about these disappearances a few counties over… well, of course.

So maybe it means getting stuck in the same car with the man he’s been in love with— okay, if he admits it— for years.

Stiles shakes his head. Maybe it’s just been a long while since high school, when he had his last real relationships. Anything since then could hardly be called that.

But Derek… it’s like he keeps coming back to this idea; sure, maybe it’s because Derek found himself single again a few years ago, and hasn’t hardly dated since, but there’s always been something there.

“Never the right time,” the man says, looking into the distance.

Stiles doesn’t remember if he was talking. He must have been going on about Derek. “Yeah, I just.. I was dating someone and then he was dating someone and then when we were single we never.. I don’t know. And then today he just was so pissed off, like he doesn’t think I can do anything, you know? And I’m good at the m—”

Stiles catches himself just in time before he starts revealing the entirety of the supernatural world to this random harmless looking dude.

“It’s frustrating, when those you care about do or say things you don’t understand,” Castiel says.

“No, I understand him alright, he doesn’t want me to fight but like, I’ve been fighting alongside him forever? Like I’m not a kid anymore?”

“I mean he may be saying these things out of affection. That he does not want you to be hurt,” Castiel says.

Stiles laughs, dry and hoarse from the drinking. He signals the bartender, who comes over with two shots. Stiles reaches for one but the woman shakes her head.

“These are for him. You, I’m cutting off.”

“But why does he get two?” Stiles whines.

“Because I’ve seen him drink three times this much,” she waves at the empty glasses, “hold his own in a barfight and still walk out this door with a ‘Have a nice day, ma’am.’”

Castiel raises the glasses to her and nods respectfully, downing each of them one by one. He doesn’t even look fazed.

Stiles flops onto the bar counter. He feels dizzy; he’ll likely have a hangover tomorrow, his phone is out of battery and he probably doesn’t have money for a taxi back to the motel he and Derek are staying at.

“So you said you understand. What I’m going through,” Stiles says, waving vaguely. “You have a person?”

“I think at this point I can say I have several people,” Castiel says. “But yes. There’s a person who I hold in similar esteem to what you feel for your Derek.”

Stiles frowns. He hasn’t mentioned Derek’s name. He’s pretty drunk, but that definitely hasn’t come up in the story at all. He sits up, reaching for his wrists where he can reach the tattooed runes to call up a few quick spells, in case—

There’s an arm on his shoulder. “I mean you no harm,” Castiel says. He reaches for Stiles and somehow Stiles’ instinct is not to flee but to stay still as the man presses his fingers to his forehead.

The gash on his head from the dryad fight stops throbbing, his headache from drinking is gone, and the cut that was on his hand mysteriously disappears.

“What are you?” Stiles asks in disbelief.

“I can help you,” Castiel says with a smile, squeezing his shoulder in a small gesture of comfort. “Tell him how you feel.”

Stiles snorts. “Thanks for the patch-up, but unless you can summon a magical car from somewhere to get me back to—”

Suddenly the world spins and Stiles blinks. He and Castiel are standing in the parking lot outside the ratty hotel room he and Derek checked into, and Derek is sitting on a curb, looking alarmed.

Next to him, and an empty case of beer between them, is another man, also wearing a leather jacket, knocking back a beer.

“Sup, Cas,” the man slurs.

“Stiles!” Derek says, looking at the two of them in confusion.

“Uh,” Stiles says. “I don’t know what’s going on, but this guy brought me here—”

“They are going to have an important conversation, Dean,” Castiel says with a smile.

“Cas, you can’t just poof random people around— wait, Derek, is this your guy?”

Derek looks at his feet.

“Dude!” The man— Dean— exclaims, pushing Derek’s shoulders playfully.

This irks Stiles for some reason. Derek hates being called dude. Granted, Stiles calls him dude all the time, but that’s different. “Don’t call him that,” he says testily. “Who even are you?”

“Dean Winchester,” is the answer, with a cheeky smile. “I was hunting this dryad and then was trying to figure out where it went; stalked this bad boy from where it was last seen and then figured out if he was a werewolf and I was like, hah, there’s a story there, and wondered if I needed to bust out the silver but I got to talkin’ to Derek here and he’s not so bad.”

“Silver,” Derek scoffs.

Stiles nods, wondering what sort of old-school hunter still thinks silver is effective on werewolves. He stumbles forward, and Derek leaps up and catches him before he pitches headfirst onto the pavement.

“Hey,” Stiles says awkwardly from Derek’s lap.

“Hello,” Derek says.

In the distance Stiles is vaguely aware of Castiel tugging Dean and then the two of them walking off, but he’s more mesmerized by the fact that Derek’s face is inches away from his own and Derek hasn’t moved yet.

“I’m sorry for yelling earlier,” Derek says softly. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’m also sorry for yelling,” Stiles says. “I don’t— I just don’t like thinking that you just see me as this kid that can’t take care of himself.”

“I don’t— I haven’t. For years. You’re not,” Derek says, fumbling. “I— you’re drunk. Should get to bed. Come on.”

“Who were those guys, really?” Stiles wonders as Derek helps him to his feet. Dean and Castiel have walked to the edge of the parking lot, standing close but not quite touching. They lean in close, talking quietly. “That Dean guy was some sort of hunter? And the other one was magic, but not any kind I’ve ever seen. What are they saying?”

“Something about… oh. Never mind,” Derek says, cheeks going pink.

He opens the room door and helps Stiles inside, a hand careful on his shoulder.

Stiles flops on the bed. Derek paces awkwardly and sits on the other mattress, watching Stiles. "Are you okay? I should get you some water."

"Aw, You _do_ care," Stiles says.

"Of course I care," Derek says, annoyed. He gets up and grabs the flimsy paper cup from the coffee tray, filling it at the sink and returning to Stiles, holding it up for him to drink.

"Do you _care_ care though," Stiles mumbles.

"I don't understand what you're saying," Derek says. "Go to sleep, Stiles."

Stiles might be imagining it, but Derek lays him down and even fluffs the pillow under his head. "I can't. That guy, he was right, I should tell you how I feel, while I still feel brave enough."

"You're always brave."

There's a silence that hangs between them as Derek lingers, leaning over him.

"You'll feel better in the morning," Derek says softly. "Get some rest."

"I need to..." Stiles says, but his eyelids are drooping. "Tell you..."

"I'll be here."

Stiles, in some stroke of impulsive bravery, reaches out and grabs Derek's hand, curling his fingers around his own.

"Stay," Stiles murmurs, tugging Derek forward. "Please stay."

He's asleep before he knows it.

 

* * *

 

Stiles wakes up incredibly warm, and without the hangover he expected. He opens his eyes, slowly, and for a second he thinks he might be dreaming, before he processes the peeling wallpaper of the motel and the dusty light streaming in the window.

Derek is sprawled out over him, head resting atop Stiles' chest, breathing rhythmically, face relaxed in sleep. His arm is curled around Stiles' body protectively, and he stirs a little but doesn't wake up, nuzzling into the fabric of Stiles' shirt.

Stiles doesn't move, contemplating going back to sleep and then decides just to enjoy the moment.

The night's events come back to him, all at once.

Fuck. Did Stiles really say _tell you how I feel?_ Ugh, drunk Stiles has no filter. It’s the worst. At least whatever mojo that Castiel guy did took care of his hangover; he doesn’t feel too bad at all. Physically, that is. Emotionally…

Derek’s solid weight is comforting, and he looks peaceful. Like he belongs here, in bed with Stiles, his long eyelashes dark on his cheek, gorgeous jaw nuzzling Stiles’ chest.

Stiles resists the urge to card his hands through Derek’s hair, or to wrap an arm around Derek’s waist and hold him close.

He watches Derek for a soft, sleepy moment, until the light from the window moves across Derek’s face. He  blinks, confused, and then looks up and catches Stiles’ eye. A few emotions flick through his face, too rapidly for Stiles to really parse through before Derek schools them into that unsettling calm demeanor he likes to exude around people he doesn’t know.

It hurts a little, because Stiles thought they’d been getting closer, all these years, and Derek didn’t need to hide his emotions from him anymore. Apparently not.

“Sorry,” Derek says, a trace of guilt in his voice as he untangles himself from Stiles and sits up. He rubs at his eyes, and opens them, face drawn in an unhappy grimace, like it’s a chore to wake up with Stiles.

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, too brightly. “What’s a little cuddle between friends? I mean, I did ask you to stay, after all.”

Derek’s cheeks turn red— and that, Stiles was not expecting. “Last night—”

“I drank too much and some weird guy teleported me from the bar to here. Let’s forget everything else that happened. We came, we saw, we sent those dryads back to dryad-land or whatever. Let’s go home.”  

It only takes a few minutes for them to pack up, and then they’re out the door, Camaro purring when it starts. Stiles pointedly stares out the window, and they have a few minutes of silence before it’s broken by Stiles’ stomach growling.

“It’s about two hours back to Beacon Hills,” Derek says. “I didn’t see much on the way here in terms of food, we should probably get something while we’re here.”

“Fine,” Stiles says.

He expects Derek to pull them through a drive through or something, but Derek instead stops at an old-fashioned diner, with handpainted signs that declare their pie the best in the county. Stiles awkwardly follows Derek into the diner; it’s filled with families and couples getting cozy in booths, everyone getting their brunch on.

“Pancake and French toast special today on the chalkboard, dears,” the waitress says, leading them to a booth.

Stiles slides in, looking carefully at the menu and not at Derek.

“They have French toast,” Derek says.

Stiles was just looking at that special and was considering if he wanted to splurge— it sounds glorious, some sort of strawberry cheesecake stuffed French toast that’s deep fried and smothered in powdered sugar.

It’s also like sixteen bucks.

“Think I’ll just do coffee and get a bagel,” Stiles says, setting down the menu.

“But you love French toast,” Derek says. “I’ve never seen this kind before, it’s special, right? We can’t get this in Beacon Hills.”

“Are you buying me French toast, is that what you’re saying,” Stiles says crossly.

The waitress comes back and plucks her pen out of her hairbun, pulls out a notepad and looks at them expectantly.

“I’ll have the steak and eggs, and the French toast special for him,” Derek says, handing the menus back to her.

Stiles blinks. “Seriously? Okay, wait, um, I also want extra bacon and sausage and a tall glass of orange juice. Please.”

“You got it,” the waitress says, walking off.

Stiles nods, going back to studying the paintings on the walls, content to sit in uncomfortable silence. As long as they don’t talk about it, he’ll be spared the pitying rejecting, or better yet, they can never talk about it again.

At the end of the counter he spots a familiar trenchcoat— it’s that guy, Castiel. Stiles kicks Derek under the table. “Hey, look,” he whispers.

“They’re not werewolves, they can’t hear us,” Derek says, turning to look.

The two men are drinking coffee, and the leather jacket one— what was his name again? the hunter who’d been drinking with Derek all buddy-buddy like, calling him dude and everything— is eating pie, so they probably just finished their breakfast (lunch? brunch? dinner? who eats pie for breakfast, anyway?).

“Don’t be so obvious,” Stiles hisses. “We don’t know what they’re capable of! Castiel’s magic is unexplainable, he didn’t use any spells that I know of and like… the other one’s a hunter, right?”

“They’re not a danger to us,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “Dean calls himself a hunter but from the way he was telling me last night, he and his brother pretty much do what we do, helping people with their supernatural problems. Plus, I think those two have got better things to do.” He jerks his head at them.

Stiles takes a slow sideways peek, and watches the fond smile Castiel is giving Dean, the way Dean’s arm is slung around the back of Castiel’s chair. “Oh. _Oh,”_ Stiles says.

The food arrives and Stiles is saved from any more conversation; the French toast is just as delicious as he thought it would be, crispy on the outside and filled with cream and fruit and it’s the kind of heart attack on a plate he can’t eat in front of his dad.

Stiles looks up, satisfied and wipes his mouth with a napkin and then freezes in alarm. “Derek! He’s waving at us! What do we do?”

It’s Dean, grinning at them and waving ridiculously.

Derek lifts up his hand and waves back, until Stiles grabs his wrist. “What are you doing?”

“Scott’s always said to be nice. We could be allies in the future,” Derek says.

“Oh great, they’re walking over,” Stiles says.

“Derek, Stiles,” Castiel says in that gravelly tone, and he smiles. “I hope your evening went well.”

“I bet it did,” Dean says with a lewd smirk. “Saw you guys walk in, I mean you—” he nods at Stiles, “totally weren’t catching last night, but yeah, major props, I mean, most guys think that—”

“Dean, don’t be crass,” Castiel says. “I apologize for his… bluntness.”

It takes a few seconds for Stiles to catch up with what Dean was implying. “Wait… you thought last night Derek and I _had sex?!”_

“Dude, make up sex is the best,” Dean says, shrugging. “Cas said you guys figured your shit out, so I assumed that’s where it was going.”

Derek looks horrified. “Stiles was drunk, I would never—”

“See, he would never—” Stiles starts, then narrows his eyes to look at Derek. “Wait, did you mean that you would not have sex with me _ever_ or just… last night because I was out of it?”

“Uh— I— er—” Derek stumbles.

“So they aren’t together,” Dean says, poking Castiel in the chest with his finger.

“I believe I was mistaken,” Castiel says. “My apologies again. Take care, and safe travels back to Beacon Hills.” He nods at them and takes Dean by the elbow, steering him sharply out the diner door.

Stiles turns back to look at Derek. “So, last night,” he starts, lamely.

“Last night,” Derek repeats.

“We… cuddled,” Stiles says.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. “We’re talking about this now? I got the impression that you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Because I didn’t want to hear what would happen next after I told you— “

“Told me what?” Derek asks, lifting his eyebrow expectantly.

“I’m not doing this,” Stiles says, getting up and leaving the diner. He stalks to the Camaro in the parking lot and leans against the door, waiting. He _doesn’t_ want to talk about it because he’ll know what’ll happen, that Derek will gently let him down and then their friendship, all the time it took to get them to be here, to be this close in the first place after everything they’ve been through— Stiles doesn’t want it to be weird. He can handle himself. He knows how he feels about Derek, accepted it as just an inevitability about his life now. Go to work, make sure his dad eats healthy, be in love with Derek. It’s fine. He can carry it.

Through the diner window he can see Derek leave a thick wad of cash on their table— more than enough for their check and tip, that rich, generous asshole. Derek leaves the diner, walking up to Stiles calmly.

“I know you’re uncomfortable,” Derek says, and his voice is even and… kind. Like he _knows._ “And I don’t want you to be. But we… we should talk about it. I can wait, but I’d rather get it over with now than spend two hours with you unhappily staring out the car window instead of making fun of me for my taste in music.”

Man, Stiles does love teasing him about what’s on his iPod, it’s too much fun. And he has to admit, Derek does have a point; the sooner he gets this over with, the sooner the weirdness will pass and they can forget this horrible awkward situation and go back to being friends.

“Fine,” Stiles says, folding his arms, and then unfolding them, trying to stand up right.

Derek nods, waiting, and Stiles can’t help but notice how lovely his eyes look in the light, green and blue and gray and gold and… fuck, it _is_ like the universe looking back at him.

“I… last night, when I said I needed to tell you how I felt, I meant to say… that… um. Well…” Stiles takes a deep breath. There’s no going back from this, really. “I love you, Derek. I have for some time now, and I mean it not like, in a pack way or hey-we’re-friends-and-I-love-you but like… well I do mean it in that way but I do also mean it romantically. Yeah. I love you.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, and finally Stiles laughs nervously. “I’m done with the whole confession bit,” Stiles says. “You can get on with the easy letdown and stuff now.”

A smile starts on Derek’s lips. “I don’t think I’m gonna do that,” he says softly.

“Ahh… because you’re gonna…?”

“I love you too,” Derek says, soft and sincere.

Stiles’ heart skips a beat. “What?”

Derek steps forward, crowding Stiles up against the Camaro. The metal is warm underneath his skin, and Stiles blinks in surprise. Is this happening? Oh God, it’s happening, Derek’s thigh is between his own and Derek’s body is warm and solid and his face is right there—

“I was hoping we’d get to have this conversation this morning when we were still at the motel,” Derek says, amused. “But this is a good a place as any for a first kiss, right?”

“Kiss, oh fuck yes, please.” The words fall out of Stiles’ mouth unconsciously, and yes, he is absolutely a hundred percent aboard this kissing train, and why isn’t Derek doing anything? He’s just standing here with his ridiculously hot body pressed up against Stiles, and fuck it—

Stiles grabs Derek’s chin and smashes their mouths together. It’s clumsy and wet and Derek’s beard tickles him a bit, and then Stiles finds a different angle and Derek’s _tongue_ is working wonders. Stiles groans, falling backward onto the hood of the Camaro, pulling Derek along with him.

“Get a room!” someone calls, and there’s a series of car honks.

Stiles looks up to see a black Impala drive past, Dean laughing at the front wheel. Castiel nods at them and waves.

“Um, technically, our room at the motel ten minutes away is still… good until noon,” Derek says, blushing. “And you always forget to give back the key, so if…”

Stiles reaches in his wallet and pulls out the plastic keycard, waving it in the air. He kisses Derek quickly on the mouth and then swats him playfully on the ass. “Let’s go! I won’t even make fun of you if you play that boy band song you like on the way over.”

“Hey, being in a boy band and making good music is not mutually exclusive,” Derek retorts, unlocking the Camaro.

They get in the car, and sure enough, Derek hooks up his iPod and raises a challenging eyebrow up at Stiles.

Stiles throws his hands up, laughing, his heart light. He’s not about to complain, really. He doesn’t even laugh when the first song comes on the radio, but then he loses control and bursts out laughing when Derek turns to him and sings, “Baby, you light up my world like nobody else…”

It’s ridiculous but incredibly sweet, and Stiles wouldn’t trade this moment for anything else.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me on tumblr [here](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com) if you want to say hello.


End file.
